


ecstasy of a love forgotten

by depthsofgreen



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Antagonism, Begging, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Future Fic, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-19 10:05:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depthsofgreen/pseuds/depthsofgreen
Summary: The Riddler and The Penguin have a famously complicated relationship that even they don't fully understand. When Bat trouble leaves Ed with no choice but to turn to Oswald for help, things between them only get trickier.





	1. Chapter 1

Ed doesn’t have a word for what Oswald Cobblepot is to him. 

“Ah, your _frenemy_ ,” Harley will chirp whenever Penguin comes up, her eyes always sparkling like there’s some innuendo there, or some other word she’d rather be using. It’s a claim Ed always meets with a good-natured eyeroll. _Frenemy_ is, to put it mildly, not a term he’d allow into his lexicon under any circumstances, even if it was accurate (and it isn’t).  

Ed and Oswald may have agreed to a reluctant truce all those years ago, but ‘friends’ they were not. ‘Enemies’ wasn’t quite right, either, especially not now with The Bat flying around, forcing a fragile unity among Gotham’s rogues. Oswald is...a person, with whom Ed shares a sticky history, someone he’d adored, then hated, and now doesn’t know what to do with other than smile at and subtly insult on the rare occasions when they’re forced into the same room together. 

“If you’d listen to yourself,” Harley laughs every time Ed attempts to explain this, her painted smile widening, “You’d realize that you’re only proving my point.” 

“We’re not _frenemies_ ,” Ed snaps, every now and then, the word like acid on his tongue, “I think we’re just _nothing_.”

And _that_ isn’t even close to true, of course, but at least it always shuts her up (until the next time, that is).  

It doesn’t matter, usually, the slipperiness of this connection between Gotham’s very own Riddler and Penguin. They interact when they have to, occasionally throw wrenches from afar into each other’s plans for the fun of it - it’s almost playful, certainly not deadly. People whisper about them. They speculate, they project, but no one can come close to really knowing. This _something_ between them is uniquely, singularly theirs.  

No, whatever people might insist, Ed doesn’t have a word for what Oswald Cobblepot is to him, and there are moments where that feels like the profoundest of intimacies.  

That is, at least, what Ed is telling himself right now, as he stands warily at the Iceberg Lounge’s entryway. He’s in that narrow window of time between opening and closing when the customary line hasn’t yet started forming, sun beating down on him.  

He’s confident that, if nothing else, Oswald will let him in and agree to see him. 

Whether or not he’ll be willing to provide the help that Ed begrudgingly plans to ask for, though...that’s harder to predict, offbeat intimacy or no.  

Ed supposes he should knock on the door. He catches his hand wavering, though, as he tries to move it. The truth is, this place - _The Iceberg Lounge,_ he thinks bitterly - is hard for him. It’s the space wherein he was very publicly imprisoned for longer than he likes to think about. Even the name of it makes his chest go tight. One too many witless nobodies had thought it just _hysterical_ to quip, “ _The Riddler? No no no, aren’t you The Iceberg?_ ” in the months following his thawing. Their laughter never lasted long, and it’s been a long while since anyone dared reference that icy blip in Ed’s history, but the memory of it still makes his ears go hot with ire (not that he’d ever let anyone, least of all Oswald, know it). 

Ed’s swallowing hard and moving in for a knock at last when one of the large doors cuts him off by swinging open, quite unexpectedly.  

“What do you want?” comes a flat voice from just inside, the lips that shape the question tinged with blue and frost. 

Mr. Freeze. Armored to the teeth, cold gun in hand. Oswald’s old co-conspirator, who’d ensured Ed’s temporary demise. Of course it would be him.

“Freeze,” Ed announces coolly, hands dropping to his side and back straightening as he shakes off the mild embarrassment of having been caught stalling at the door, “Does Penguin have you on door duty, of all things? An honor, I’m sure.”

“I repeat: what do you want?” 

“So grumpy,” Ed smiles, wide and manic, “You’d think _I_ was the one who damned _you_ to an ice block for a year.”

Freeze’s only visible reaction is to move his hand back to the door, swinging it closed. 

Ed stops it with a frantic hand. 

“Okay, well, if you don’t want to _play_ ,” Ed smiles again, “Take me to someone who might. I’m here for Penguin.” 

Freeze eyes him with what Ed can only assume is suspicion before re-opening the door fully, letting Ed in. 

“Atta boy,” Ed coos as he steps inside, staring determinedly at Freeze’s back as he leads him through the building toward Oswald’s quarters (the less aware of his surroundings Ed is, the better).  

“Wait here,” Freeze commands once they’re a few feet from an imposing door Ed figures is the entryway to Oswald’s office.  

Ed leans against the wall in reply, crossing his arms and legs with a coquettish grin.  

Freeze knocks on the door and is promptly allowed in before the door is closed shut behind him just as quickly. Ed catches no glimpse of Oswald from his vantage point, and sags against the wall, exhaling hard. 

It’s not that he’s nervous, exactly. Ed is more than capable of holding his own against Oswald (after all, when all else fails, a cutting reminder that Oswald had once fallen stupidly in love with him is usually all it takes to make that maddening gleam in his eyes go dim). 

There are, however, at least a couple of things working in Oswald’s favor here. Firstly, the setting: an obvious drawback, given their history, and one only made worse by Freeze’s presence. Secondly, Ed’s initiation: the two have certainly had a few occasions to converse and even work together since Ed’s thawing, but it’s always been instigated by external forces, neither of them entirely willing (or so they both pretended). Ed, knocking on Oswald’s door of his own volition and hoping for entry and conversation, is already entirely new terrain.

The biggest drawback by far, however: Ed is, truthfully, very desperate. In dire straits, and Oswald will smell it on him like great white sharks smell blood in the water.  

“Alright,” Freeze’s voice announces as the office door opens anew, interrupting Ed’s internal fretting, “You can come in.” 

Ed nods and walks past him, and the door is shut with a click behind him and a “ _thank you, Victor_ ” from Oswald. 

And then, here they are: The Penguin and The Riddler, alone, face to face, Oswald seated comfortably behind his desk as Ed hovers a few steps from the doorway. 

Unfortunately, Oswald’s current setup only makes Ed’s handle on the situation all the more perilous. He’s dressed to the nines in a suit threaded through with blacks and purples, hair falling in neat spikes over heavily lined eyes. He looks small but graceful in the throne-like chair he’s sitting on, framed artfully by the circular window behind him and two exquisite pieces of ice sculpture on either side of his desk.

_Ever the drama queen_ , Ed thinks sullenly (but not without some appreciation). He forces a smile as he steps forward just before Oswald’s desk. 

Oswald is smiling back up at him, lips closed, eyes positively _alight_. There’s no doubt at all, then, that he’s as aware of his clear upper hand here as Ed is. 

“Edward,” Oswald says finally, eyes going brighter, “Always lovely to see you. I’m glad you chose to come in. I did wonder if you’d just linger outside all day.”

Ed blinks at that. 

Oswald laughs. 

“What, did you think Gotham’s most lucrative nightclub _wouldn’t_ have security cameras installed outdoors? I was alerted to your presence before you’d even reached the doorway.” 

“Of course you were,” Ed says, smile growing painful on his face, “So sending your pet popsicle to retrieve me was - what? A threat?” 

“Truthfully, I just thought it’d be funny,” Oswald leans back in his chair, smirk unfading, “I have no plans of breaking our _ceasefire_ , easy though it’d be.” 

_Of course he sent Freeze purposefully_ , Ed thinks, refusing to break eye contact even as he stays silent, _Of course_.  

“So,” Oswald says, leaning forward in his chair again, arms folded over his desk, “What do you need? Although - wait. Let’s see if I can guess.” 

Ed’s smile has faded entirely now. 

“I spy with my little eye a _much_ subtler shade of green than you’ve been favoring lately,” Oswald practically sing-songs.  

It’s obscene how smug he is. Ed is suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of the weight of the blade sitting in his pocket.

“And you’re back to sporting glasses, I see, instead of that _dashing_ little eye mask,” Oswald continues, eyes scanning Ed from head to toe, “No hat, mercifully - why, you look every inch the average Gotham citizen.” 

“Not _every_ inch, surely,” Ed says with a rise of his brow. 

Oswald humors him with a small laugh. 

“Oh, Ed, always so funny,” Oswald’s eyes narrow, “But, back to the point: there’s no obvious trace of _The Riddler_ on your ordinarily-garish person, and you’re here by day. Is someone hiding from that big, bad Bat?” 

Ed can’t help but sigh. Underestimating Oswald: a classic mistake, and one he can’t believe he’s made again. 

No matter.

“Well, well, well,” Ed smiles, clapping his hands together in applause, “Sharp as ever. Bravo.” 

Oswald can’t help but to preen at that, smoothing the folds of his sleeves down with a smirk just a touch softer than the one he’s been sporting since Ed stepped in. 

“So, tell me what happened,” Oswald says then, tone serious, something in the depths of his eyes warming. 

_Oh, Oswald_ , Ed thinks, keeping his face carefully still, _So easy to make pliable_.

“The details are...unimportant,” Ed says, with a dismissive gesture of the hand, “What’s essential is that The Bat hit a stroke of luck and has me cornered. I can’t seem to shake him and I’m running out of safe houses.” 

“By ‘a stroke of luck,’ I assume you mean he keeps solving those riddles you insist on leaving behind.” 

“Well,” Ed says, frowning, “Yes.” 

“Has it ever occurred to you, Ed, that you’d probably be better off _not_ leaving clues that point right to you lying around your crime scenes and hideouts?” 

“I just need to up my game,” Ed insists, tone steely, “My previous opponents have left me ill-prepared for this new vigilante with their...inferior intellect.” 

“I hope that doesn’t mean me,” Oswald says, eyes flashing dangerously. 

“You know it doesn’t. I never tried any real riddles on you. Perhaps that’s how I ended up suspended in ice.” 

“I hardly think a lack of riddles was the problem,” Oswald scoffs.

“We’re veering off-topic,” Ed interjects, swallowing back a wave of rage.  

“Yes, you’re right. By all means, direct us back to the _topic_.” 

Ed opens his mouth, then closes it. 

_He’s going to make you do it_ , Ed realizes, skin warming, _He’s going to make you ask for his help, even after figuring it out for his damn self. Of course he is_.

“Like I said, I need to up my game,” Ed repeats, bracing himself, “And I can’t do that from Arkham. Which is where I’ll be going if my _current_ game sees its end.”

“So?” 

“So - I need your help.” 

Oswald closes his eyes, exhales, and smiles wide, making a big, unnecessary show of savoring the moment (Ed would do the same were their roles reversed, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from seeing scarlet, murderous _red_ ). 

When Oswald opens his eyes again, they’re positively _dancing_ in the light. It’d almost be endearing were Ed not one abrasive word away from pulling his blade out of his pocket and jamming it in Oswald’s jugular. 

“And what, pray tell, do you want me to do?” Oswald asks, toning the smugness down just enough to ensure he isn’t murdered on the spot, “I could offer you quarters here, but that’d only hold you over for so long and you would, no doubt, just lead The Bat here all over again anyway.” 

“Don’t play coy,” Ed places his hands palm-down on the edge of Oswald’s desk, leaning forward, “My sources tell me you built quite the alliance with The Bat when he took Black Mask down last month. Rumor has it he owes you a favor or fifty.” 

“I had my own reasons for wanting Black Mask out of the picture, but,” Oswald leans forward himself, face just a foot from Ed’s, and it’s the closest they’ve been in _years_ , “You’re not wrong. I may just have The Bat sitting rather uncomfortably in my back pocket. For now.”

“Now’s all I need,” Ed drops his voice, leans in a touch closer.  

“Hmmm,” Oswald hums, mouth tilting up, face moving still nearer, “So I suppose the question becomes: what do _I_ get for helping you?” 

“I’ll owe you a favor,” Ed says, soft, a tingle of suggestion to it as his eyes sweep down the lines and contours of Oswald’s face, just inches from his own now. 

“You boys and your favors,” Oswald sighs, and Ed can feel the warm puff of it against his chin, “You never have anything more substantive to offer.” 

“Well,” Ed says, frustration coiling up his spine, “What can I provide that’s more _substantive_?”  

Oswald smirks, so close now the sharp tip of his nose is practically brushing against Ed’s. 

“I want you,” Oswald breathes, then pauses, eyes fluttering, “To beg for it.” 

Ed’s blood goes cold. He’s snapping backwards and away from Oswald before he even has time to think about it. 

Oswald is laughing. 

Ed is so angry he can hear his blood rushing.

“What?” Oswald asks, full of mirth, “Is that _really_ so undue a request? Do you know how much begging _I’ve_ had to do in my life? You yourself bore witness to it at least once. I’m confident you remember.” 

Ed exhales hard. He’s faintly aware that his hands are trembling. 

“If you really want my help, old friend,” Oswald grins wickedly, “You’re going to have to beg for it.” 

Ed weighs his options. He could kill Oswald, for one. The little man rather foolishly let Ed in here with nary a bodyguard to protect him, and Ed has his knife. Or, better yet, his hands. How _easy_ it would be to wrap them around Oswald’s thin, pale throat. 

That wouldn’t solve his Bat problem, though, and would, if anything, only make it worse.  

Besides, he wouldn’t be The Riddler if he found any fulfillment in the _easy_ way out. 

“Fine,” Ed says through gritted teeth, “Fine.” 

Oswald leans back in his chair, grin settling into a smirk.

Ed balls his fists at his sides, and stares intently at the surface of Oswald’s desk.  

“Oswald,” he begins, and he can _feel_ the heat of Oswald’s stare, “Will you…” 

Ed trails off at that, the necessary next words stuck in his throat. 

“Will I…?” Oswald asks, and Ed can hear the barely-repressed laughter in his voice.

“Will you..use one of your favors to get The Bat off my back?” Ed manages, then inhales, closes his eyes, and out it comes: “ _Please_?”  

When Oswald is silent, Ed chances to look up, cheeks hot and jaw clenched so tightly he’s sure he’s wearing his molars down.

Oswald is eyeing him with a look both amused and mystified, mouth hanging slightly open.  

“ _That_ , Ed...was a truly pathetic effort,” Oswald says finally, “But, if I’m being honest, I didn’t expect you to make the attempt at all, and you _do_ look like you’re in immense physical pain, so I’ll take it.” 

Ed sighs with relief, back straightening and skin cooling. 

“So you’ll do it?” he asks, and it’s a little too eager, but this has been an excruciating exercise and he just needs it to be over. 

“I’ll think about it,” Oswald says, eyes and voice like ice, “I’ll be in touch about my decision. Victor can see you out.” 

And just like that, the door bursts open, Freeze stalking in and grabbing Ed by the arm with an impossibly cold grip. Ed is struck as if across the face by the horrifying realization that he had no doubt heard the whole thing.  

As Ed is forcibly dragged out of Oswald’s office, positively _boiling_ with rage, Oswald’s voice calls from across the room:

“Oh, and Ed, do keep in mind - next time you have to beg for my help, you’re going to have to get on your knees.” 

Ed can _swear_ he sees Freeze’s stone-still mouth twist into the barest flash of a smirk.  

“I’m going to _destroy_ you both,” he growls, panting wrathfully as Freeze shoves him out of the Iceberg Lounge and back into the heat of the sun.

_Game on_.


	2. Chapter 2

“He got you to beg?” Harley asks, her laugh reaching a pitch so high she sounds painfully like that canary-themed mask she’s taken to antagonizing lately, “ _You_?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Ed frowns, rubbing his temples. 

“You didn’t have to, Eddie. That snarl on your face said it all.”  

Ed sighs. Having a costumed ally in this city comes with its conveniences (Harley had, after all, secured him the miserable spot he was currently squatting), but it was moments like this that made him wonder if the cost was too high to be worth it.  

“So is he gonna do it? Save you?” 

“I don’t need -” Ed begins, then drops his hands from his head, sighing again, “He said he’d _think about it_.”  

“He’ll do it,” Harley says with a smirky surety that makes Ed’s skull throb all over again, “What else are _frenemies_ for?” 

And there’s that glitter in her eye again, that subtle suggestion of something Ed would rather not think too hard about. 

Ed’s opening his mouth to say something truly unkind when his phone rings.  

“Who is this?” Ed spits by way of greeting as he picks the phone up to his ear with a rough click. 

“The Penguin will meet you in his office at midnight,” is the only reply he receives. 

Ed’s question goes ignored, but the voice tells him all he needs to know: female, sugary, but simmering with quiet malice.  

The line goes dead before Ed can respond.  

“Who was -” 

“Firefly,” Ed says, up on his feet and pocketing his phone, “ _The Penguin_ is deigning to meet me tonight.” 

“Ohh, Bridgit? I wish you’d said hi for me,” Harley tuts, then, noticing Ed’s sudden beeline for the door, “Where are you going? It’s still afternoon and you’re supposed to be in _hiding_.”  

“If I’m to be making face at the Iceberg Lounge during operating hours, I need to be dressed for the occasion,” Ed replies, smile wide. 

Ed is out the door then with a gesture of the hand that’s more a flourish than a wave, grin spreading as his pulse jumps. 

That Oswald is forcing Ed to walk through the Lounge at peak swing is an obvious power move. The discomfort that Ed had betrayed at the location yesterday would only be intensified when the place was populated with its usual surplus of Gotham’s most glamorous and dangerous. Many present would no doubt recognize The Riddler not just from his recent headlines but from the days he’d spent as a central fixture at that very spot.

Oswald was, without question, anticipating a walk of shame that would leave Ed wounded before he even stepped foot into Oswald’s office. 

And Ed? Ed’ll be _damned_ if he’s giving him the pleasure.  

Ed spends the afternoon and bulk of the night tearing through all of Gotham’s most luxury clothing shops, carefully assembling an outfit that will loudly announce itself (and leaving more than a few bodies in his wake while he’s at it).  

Harley’s warning rings in his ears - _you’re supposed to be in hiding_ \- but Ed feels newly, inexplicably invincible. Oswald may have just declared another irksome power play, but he’d unknowingly revealed his hand, too. The Penguin is a famously busy man, after all, straddling several positions of power at once. And yet he’d now cleared space for Ed in his schedule _twice_ in just a little over 24 hours. Ed may have been the desperate one yesterday, he can concede that - but Oswald, jumping so quickly at the chance to get him in his office again? _That_ reeks of desperation of a different sort.  

He shares Harley’s surety, now, that Oswald had done just as Ed asked. The man was clearly on an Ed-fixated power trip, and how better to assert it than by definitively, swiftly proving he has Gotham’s newest and most formidable vigilante under his sway? 

Ed beams as he stands before the ornate mirror of a tailor shop, the corpse of its owner currently undergoing pallor mortis several feet behind him. With a gloved hand, he strokes the rim of the black bowler hat atop his head and straightens the purple domino mask adorning his face.

He turns to admire the cut of the acid-green suit hugging every line of his body (it was almost a shame, really, that the shop owner hadn’t been as adept at wordplay as he’d been at tailoring - just _one_ correctly answered riddle and Ed could have happily commissioned further ensembles, but alas). His favorite detail, he muses, running his fingers down his chest, might just be the purple tie emblazoned with a tidy question mark in the same shade of green as his suit.  

On the off-chance that Ed is wrong about all this and readying to walk into a Bat-rigged trap, at least he’ll be dragged off to Arkham looking just _delicious_.

Ed pulls up a sleeve to check his watch before smoothing it back down in place, tickled anew by the bright shock of color (and tickled too by the time, near enough to midnight that he can soon begin his leisurely walk to The Iceberg Lounge). 

With a final appreciative glance in the mirror, Ed turns to the tailor’s body lying spread-eagle on the floor, looking down at the display contemplatively.  

“Now, what am I going to do with you?” he asks aloud. 

Ed decisively pulls a blade out of his pocket, squatting over the body with care not to crease his suit. He strokes the tailor’s cooling face with a leathered fingertip, then brings the knife’s edge to his forehead. He carves a large, blood-red question mark into his skin, grinning down at his work. 

No, The Riddler isn’t hiding anymore.  

“Showtime,” he breathes to himself as he stands upright and steps out into the crisp air of the outdoors. The Iceberg Lounge is near enough that Ed can hear the thrumming bass of its musical entertainment from his current spot. Ed moves toward it, feeling newly emboldened with every step, and glides past the line that curves a mile out from the building’s entrance.  

He can feel the heated stares and resentment as he struts with ease up to the lit-up doorway, smiling affably at the bulky man guarding it (one of Strange’s leftover freaks, no doubt).  

“The Penguin has requested my presence,” he announces, readying to make a bloody scene should Oswald have been deluded enough to expect him to wait in line like some sort of commoner. 

The man only grunts in response and lets him in with a nod of the head.  

Ed inhales and steps inside, pop-punk blaring in his ears as neon blue and purple lights overwhelm his senses. He cuts through the dancing crowd to move into the quieter walkway that leads to The Lounge’s more elegant rooms (Oswald’s office included).

Sure enough, heavily made-up and meticulously-styled heads turn to stare at him as he passes a space made up of dining tables. Whispered fragments reach his ears: _“Is that…? What is he…? ...that green… Remember when…? ...centerpiece…”_  

Ed flashes a tooth-baring smile that could just as easily be a snarl and waves emphatically the way a rock star might wave to gaggles of adoring fans.  

Several steps and a staircase later and he’s at Oswald’s door again, a frostily familiar face awaiting him outside. 

“Freeze,” Ed greets, “We have _got_ to stop meeting like this. You’ve taken up your fair share of headline space lately, surely you’ve got better things to do than stand outside Penguin’s office like a guard dog.” 

Freeze gives little indication that he even heard him beyond turning to knock on Oswald’s door. Ed notes something that looks like a bruise splayed across the silver-blue of Freeze’s cheekbone. _Interesting_.  

“He’s here,” Freeze announces when Oswald’s door cracks open.

Freeze holds the door open for him as Ed steps inside, Oswald’s back turned to him as he moves toward his desk. There’s something stilted about his step, Ed observes, his usual limp slowing him down more than usual. _Doubly interesting_.  

Oswald turns to face him once he reaches his desk, leaning against the outer edge rather than going for the throne-chair behind it. _Easier to lean than to sit, perhaps. Hmmm_.  

“My, Ed, may I say that you are looking _quite_ the eyesore,” Oswald says once comfortable, smiling tightly. 

“Why, thank you,” Ed replies, holding a mock-flattered hand up to his chest, “You seemed to miss my usual _garishness_ yesterday, so I thought I’d turn it up a notch or two for you. Your guests just outside seemed equally taken with it.”  

“I’m sure. A fair few of the old-time regulars have confessed to missing your place in the Lounge’s ornamentation.”

“Oh, but I’m _so_ much more impressive in living, breathing motion,” Ed grins, taking steady strides toward Oswald until there’s only about a foot of space between them, “You had so much to say about yesterday’s costume choice. Any further thoughts on today’s?” 

“Looks to me like someone’s overcompensating,” Oswald grips the edge of his desk with a hand, smile spreading even as his eyes darken. 

“Creative interpretation,” Ed laughs, looking down at himself as if assessing its validity, “But I’ve got a different one. Do you wanna hear it?” 

“I get the distinct sense I’ll be hearing it regardless of my _want_.”  

“Still sharp as a nail,” Ed taps Oswald’s temple with a fingertip, grinning when Oswald flinches, “See, when your little firebug called me up this afternoon, I got to thinking. There I was, not even a full day after requesting your help yesterday -” 

“You mean begging,” Oswald reminds him.  

“Not even a full day passes,” Ed continues, ignoring the interruption, “And already you’d come to a decision. Quick work for the self-proclaimed King of Gotham.” 

“Speedy results are just one of the many perks of power,” Oswald bites, mouth twisting, “Maybe one day you’ll acquire enough to experience it for yourself.”

“Maybe,” Ed laughs, thoroughly unruffled, “But all these frequent and unsubtle allusions to your so-called _power_...a little desperate, no?”

 Oswald’s spine stiffens, stare unblinking. 

“One might even say,” Ed continues, practically trembling with delight, “You’re _overcompensating_. The forced begging, Freeze’s inescapable presence, dragging me here when your club is at its fullest...it’s all so...heavy-handed.” 

“I’m sorry,” Oswald interjects, laughing in disbelief, “But it is truly something to hear The Riddler of all people accusing _anyone_ of heavy-handed displays of power.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Ed concedes, no less smugger for it, “Like recognizes like.” 

Oswald is frowning now, but blissfully silent. 

“Anyway,” Ed continues, “As I was saying. You’re clearly eager to prove something, to me in particular. Dragging me in here to announce you’re denying my request for help -”

“Your _begging_ for help, you mean -”

“By all means, Oswald, continue proving my point for me.” 

Oswald rolls his eyes, quieting once more. 

“Dragging me in here just to announce you’ll do nothing about my Bat problem could assert some command, sure, _but_. Dragging me in here to make a show of how even Gotham’s feared _Batman_ is under your control...now, that seems like the more classically Penguin power play.” 

Oswald crosses his arms, eyes narrow. 

“So!” Ed chirps, readying for the climax of his verbal takedown, “I _know_ you’ve averted the Bat’s eyes away from me. I knew it’d been done when I got the call, and I knew hiding was no longer necessary.” 

“Thus this _tantalizing_ little number,” Oswald finishes for him, gesturing towards Ed’s suit, voice flat and sarcastic, “And a slew of smaller shows elsewhere across the city, I’m sure.”  

“Exactly,” Ed inches closer to Oswald, smile _huge_ , “I’m right, aren’t I? Tell me I’m right.”  

“Well,” Oswald sighs, uncrossing his arms, “I think you’re projecting just a smidge, but I _did_ successfully get The Bat off your back. For a short while, anyway. If you continue to be as _careless_ as you’ve been, there’s no saving you from his winged wrath.” 

Ed closes his eyes at that, smiling to himself with a breathy exhale. The perfect picture of self-contented _relishing_ , and one he’s picked up from Oswald himself.

Ed opens his eyes again to find Oswald’s lips thinned out into a shadowy line, clearly fuming. Ed swallows back a laugh. 

“I want you to know, Oswald, that your eagerness to help is appreciated, and I don’t mean to kick you when you’re down. _But_ -” 

Ed lunges forward without warning, driving his fist with soft force into Oswald’s ribcage.

Oswald howls with pain and doubles over, clutching at his middle. 

“Ed, what the _fuck_ -”  

“Sorry,” Ed says, at least partially meaning it, “I just - the bruise on Freeze’s face. The pronouncement of your limp. That slight tilt to your lean.” 

Oswald looks up at him, eyes spitting fire as he struggles to straighten up again with a wince. 

“The Bat wasn’t exactly cooperative, was he?” Ed asks, eyeing Oswald carefully. 

Oswald stands on tiptoe for a moment to rest his backside against the desk’s edge, panting and sagging forward.  

Ed feels a twinge of something like guilt. Just a twinge. Easy enough to will away. 

“He was not,” Oswald says with a sigh before his mouth twists angrily again, eyes flashing, “He must _really_ despise you. Have to say, I know the feeling.” 

“And yet you fought to get him off my case anyway,” Ed observes, wheels in his head turning, “How’d you do it?” 

“How was it that you put it last time? The _details_ are _unimportant_ ,” Oswald hisses.  

“They _are_ important,” Ed counters, tone forceful, “Tell me.” 

Oswald blinks at that, at the steel in his voice and intensity of Ed’s staredown. He sighs again, opening his mouth to answer. Ed’s skin feels strangely hot.  

“Let’s just say Ivy is cross with me,” Oswald says, “It involved the kidnapping and threatening of a friend of hers.” 

“So there’s the ‘how.’ Sounds like a lot of trouble, especially if the friend you refer to is the one I have in mind. So what’s the _‘why’_?” 

“Didn’t you already figure that part out?” Oswald asks, exasperated, “Penguin power plays and whatever else you just ate up minutes of my life going on about…”

“I thought I’d figured _all_ the pieces out, but now here you are, ribs cracked and leg twisted,” Ed shakes his head, “To put your livelihood on the line...a simple power play isn’t enough. There’s more.” 

“I don’t know about my _livelihood_ ,” Oswald defends himself, “Everyone knows The Bat doesn’t kill, and he doesn’t have enough evidence on me to lock me up anywhere. Unlike you, I work very hard to keep traces of myself _out_ of my wrongdoings.”  

“Still,” Ed insists, “There’s something I’m not seeing.” 

“A feeling you should be used to by now,” Oswald sneers, “But _maybe_ I just like the thought of you owing me a favor.” 

Oswald’s stance has straightened out completely now that the pain of Ed’s attack has faded, their faces quite close once again. 

“Hmm,” Ed says, mind elsewhere, “Maybe.” 

They stare at each other, silent, both with lips parted, Ed’s thoughts racing. 

He considers the data: Oswald, sustaining physical injury and getting Batman on his bad side all to grant Ed’s request. Oswald, doing all _that_ in under 24 hours. Oswald, bringing Ed in immediately to let him know. Oswald, looking up at him now, blue-green eyes wide, almost fearful, as though he can see the mental processes looping through Ed’s head and worries what conclusion he might come to.  

Oswald, who’d loved him, once, beyond all reason and self-preservation. 

Oswald, who... _ah_. Of course. Still did.

Obvious, in retrospect.  

“Oh,” Ed says aloud, then, “Oh, Oswald.” 

He’s smiling, and it’s not _cruel_ but it’s not kind, either. He’s vaguely aware that his hand is gripping tightly at Oswald’s tie of what feels like its own volition.  

“Just get out,” Oswald says, voice low but thick with danger.  

“Oswald…” 

“I said _get_ _out_!” Oswald yells, face a snarl.  

“Yeah,” Ed says, dropping his hand, “Yeah, okay.” 

He turns to leave, head spinning, and stalks out the door and past Freeze, the staircase, and the dining rooms, barely taking notice of his surroundings.  

Ed pauses when he passes the bar, doubling back and taking a seat at the counter. He orders a drink from the handsome, high-cheekbone’d bartender and sips at it absently as he processes everything. 

He’s laughing as he drains his glass, lips closing around the thin purple straw sitting in it. 

“Another, Mr. Riddler?” the bartender asks him, eyes warm and low brow raised. 

“Has anyone ever told you,” Ed swirls the straw around the glass with a finger, “That you look a bit like me?” 

“Yes, actually,” he replies, smile big and toothy, “It came up quite often back when you were...well.”

The bartender falls silent at that, looking suddenly afraid.  

“Back when I was on ice here, yes,” Ed finishes for him. 

It’s the first time anyone but Oswald has alluded to Ed’s imprisonment without immediately getting a blade to the throat. Ed realizes with a delicious tingle up his spine that the memory of that imprisonment suddenly carries very little of its usual pain. 

“I think I _will_ have another drink,” Ed announces, “I’m celebrating a win.” 

The bartender leans in close as he fills a new glass with vodka and club soda. 

“A win over the Batman?” he asks, conspiratorially.  

“No, a win over someone even better than that,” Ed replies with another laugh.  

Ed swivels in his chair and scans the crowd behind him, drink pressed to his lips. He catches Freeze lurking in a corner, no doubt keeping an eye on him at Oswald’s command. 

Ed winks at him. 

_Better get used to the sight of me, my friend_ , he thinks, equal parts spiteful and joyous, _I think_ _I’ve just found my new favorite Gotham haunt._  

When Ed swivels back around in his chair, the bartender is already pouring him his third drink. Ed accepts it with a gracious smile, straightening his mask and feeling, for the first time in a long while, every inch the scourge on Gotham he strives to be.


	3. Chapter 3

It all starts, rather unexpectedly, with a cane in a shop window.

It catches Ed’s eye one night on his walk to The Iceberg Lounge, long and gold and emanating a certain puissance that makes Ed’s pulse quicken. He walks past it (not one for falling prey to distraction), but catches himself _fixating_ in quiet moments, thoughts of the gilded shine of it or how the weight of it would feel in his hand all-consuming.

After a few days of this, he can take no more and wakes one morning with razor-sharp intent, picking the shop’s lock before its opening and leaving with the cane in hand (a small, simple little riddle left on the cash register counter behind him).

Ed doesn’t often indulge mysticisms, but the fit of the cane between his palm and fingers feels downright _fated_ , somehow, the way Isabella, bearing Kristen’s face, had felt fated, or the way Oswald had before her, on the brink of death as he’d been when they’d by some miracle found each other.

The first time Ed gives it an experimental swing he feels altered on a near-molecular level, brain suddenly alight with ideas for add-ons and alterations. A new handle would need to come first, of course, shaped in his trademark insignia. He can’t help but to think, then, about Oswald’s walking cane and its penguin head, a smile crossing his features. Oswald’s own cane handle concealed a blade, and so too would Ed need to weaponize his, perhaps take things a step further by making different handles for different purposes, one a weighted bludgeoning tool, another...something else.

Manic with inspiration, Ed spends days looting and riddling the city for the necessary materials, then holing himself away to build, tweak, experiment. He emerges from this work cocoon with a finished product so exquisite he really has no choice but to take it out for a test run _immediately_.

And he, of course, knows _just_ the place.

The Iceberg Lounge is lively as it ever is, the crowd growing more colorful by the day with all the new costumed rogues The Penguin has started offering priority entrance to. Ed is, naturally, looking quite colorful himself, in an emerald green suit that’s popping all the more splendidly against the elegant gold of his new, fearsome accessory.

Ed’s eyes scan the mass of bodies in the club’s dance space. He spots Oswald in a shadowy corner, who looks to be closing up conversation with a Zsasz even more littered in tally scars than he’d been when Ed had seen him last week. Ed watches intently as Oswald brings a hand to Zsasz’s shoulder and then slips away by himself.

He hasn’t had occasion to speak to Oswald since their last encounter in his office (and the embarrassing truth that Ed had unveiled therein). He’s been at the Lounge near nightly, savoring the ever-growing respect he’s demanded by making his presence perpetually known, but Oswald has been stubbornly inaccessible, always in the midst of lively chat with someone or other, eyes never lingering on Ed for long when they even look his way at all.

Ed is, quite frankly, _sick_ of it. Twirling the heft of his cane in hand and feeling freshly emboldened, he moves to follow Oswald, giddy to find him nowhere in public sight and thus almost certainly in his office.

He approaches his office door to see a man he doesn’t recognize guarding it. Ed makes note of the fact that it seems as though Oswald only sticks Freeze out here when he’s _anticipating_ Ed’s presence. Pathetic.

Ed approaches the man smoothly, a smile on his face.

“I’m here to see Penguin,” he announces, more a command than a request for entrance.

“One moment, Mr. Riddler, sir,” the man responds with a note of reverence that makes Ed tingle.

Ed watches as he knocks on Oswald’s door and steps inside, closing the door behind him. About a minute passes before he’s back out, looking a little rattled but letting Ed know Oswald is ready to see him.

Oswald is standing to the side of his desk when Ed walks in, rolling up a large sheet of paper that looks to be a map.

“Big plans?” Ed asks, flashing his teeth as he moves to stand beside Oswald, closer than strictly necessary.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” comes Oswald’s curt reply.

He turns to face Ed and doesn’t _quite_ sigh, but Ed can tell he wants to. Ed drops the bottom tip of his cane onto the floor with a loud _thunk_. Oswald determinedly ignores it.

“What do you want this time, Ed? Judging by that irksome spring in your step I’m guessing you’re not here for your second round of begging.”

“Quite the opposite,” Ed says, raising his cane into the air once more and running a loving hand up the shaft of it, “I put together a new toy and need someone to test it on.”

Ed imbues a touch of menace into his smile.

Oswald rolls his eyes.

Ed feels a flare of anger at that and jabs the curved question-mark handle of his cane against Oswald’s throat, mouth contorted into a snarl.

“You do realize my guards have audio access to this room the moment you step inside it, right?” Oswald asks, eyes flashing as he presses his neck all the harder into the handle as if to prove to Ed just how _unthreatened_ he feels, “I say one word and you’ll have a bullet in your skull before that _new toy_ of yours even hits the ground.”

“Relax,” Ed breathes, eyes widening innocently as he intensifies the pressure at Oswald’s throat, “I just have a riddle for you.”

Oswald groans at that.

Ed runs the handle slowly down the line of Oswald’s throat, smirking down at him. Oswald stares back up, clearly attempting an expression of annoyance but looking curious despite himself.

“Advancing every other moment, in between reverse. Leave me to my own device, I get direct and worse,” Ed twirls the cane in hand and dips the curved tip of its question mark just beneath Oswald’s collar, “What am I?”

Oswald raises his eyebrows, staring up at him expectantly.

“What?” Ed asks, slightly put out but taking care not to show it, voice a smug growl, “You’re not even going to _try_?”

“Nope,” Oswald announces with a smile, as if his inability to answer a simple riddle is something to be _proud_ of, “Now, out with it, Ed, some of us have actual jobs to get back to.”

“You know I murder most people who can’t give me an answer.”

“I’ll be sure to let ‘most people’ know,” Oswald says, starting to look _bored_ , of all things, and that simply will _not_ do.

Ed turns a dial on the base of his cane with a slight, measured movement.

He watches with childlike glee as the question mark handle (still partially-tucked beneath Oswald’s shirt) lights up a crackling blue, a scratchy zapping noise filling the air.

Oswald gasps.

“ _What_ -”

“Advancing every other moment, in between reverse. Leave me to my own device, I get direct and worse,” Ed repeats, laughing as he slides the electric-crackling handle back up Oswald’s neck to settle it just beneath his jawline, tilting his face up, “ _Electricity_.”

Oswald has a look on his face Ed can only categorize as _strange_. Ed isn’t sure what to make of it, but it feels instinctively like something he can use to his advantage. He stares down, contemplative.

“How does that feel?” Ed asks, leaning closer in to examine Oswald’s features more carefully, “Of course, this is just a tickle compared to what it’s capable of. The Bat, on the other hand, is in for the shock of his life when it’s ready for him.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a _tickle_ , but I suppose it’s not altogether -”

“Unpleasant?” Ed finishes for him, lips curling as he feels a sick sort of clarity click into place in his head, “Well, yes. There _are_ those who find electrostimulation of this caliber actually quite...pleasurable.”

Ed lets the last word hang thick and suggestive between them, tongue tip between his teeth.

Oswald’s cheeks are pink, breaths coming hard, brow scrunched up just slightly like he’s trying to decide on an appropriate reaction.

The moment is a delicate one: Ed’s cane alight with lightly-zapping force at Oswald’s neck, his innuendo heavy in the air between them. He can’t be sure what Oswald’s thinking, but he doesn’t look _angry_ , exactly.

With an odd rush of panic he can’t explain, Ed decides he needs to change that.

“How interesting,” he laughs, a cruel sound that effectively pops the bubble of ambiguous possibility that’s opened up between them, “I’m curious, Oswald, are you usually _into_ this sort of thing, or is it just because it’s _me_?”

Oswald’s mouth thins and then he’s reaching forward and knocking the cane out of Ed’s hands with a feral gnash of his teeth.

Ed laughs as he bends to pick it up, leaning down against it once it’s firmly back in hand.

“Always so childish, Oswald,” Ed tuts, “Maybe that’s why you so clearly crave -”

“You’re _pathetic_ , Ed,” Oswald snaps, skin flushed and voice acidic.

“ _I’m_ pathetic?”

“Yes,” Oswald seethes, “Pathetic. You came here to - what? Attempt to embarrass me with some two-bit sex toy masquerading as a costume accessory?”

“This _weapon_ is worth more than every overpriced square inch of fabric in your wardrobe,” Ed spits, “And I could hardly predict just how _impressive_ you’d end up finding it.”

“For someone who takes so much pleasure in holding my _years-old_ feelings for you over my head, you sure seem desperate for my attention. You’re here more often than some of my _workers_. Are you that bored? Or just that _scared_ of The Bat after he came perilously close to trouncing you? I notice you’ve avoided making any splashy headlines since the last time you were on his radar and came crawling to me for help.”

“I’ll have you know I have something big planned for The Bat at week’s end,” Ed says, defensive, and it _may_ be a decision he’s just made on the spot, but it’s true nonetheless, “Genius takes time. Like I said, you’re nothing more than a test subject.”

“Glad to hear it,” Oswald smiles, full of fire, “I look forward to being left alone now, then. Take your riddles and _electrostimulation_ to someone who actually signed up for that kind of thing.”

Ed chuckles at that.

“ _What_?” Oswald asks, exasperated.

“Oh, it’s just - you’re right. He _has_ signed up for this kind of thing, and yet he’ll undoubtedly enjoy it far less than you just did,” Ed smiles, willfully insufferable, “Life is full of ironies.”

“I didn’t -” Oswald moves to sink into his chair with a heavy sigh, waving his hand in Ed’s direction, “Never mind. As I was saying earlier, some of us have actual work to do. Honestly, Ed, will you _please_ just leave?”

“You and I both know you can beg better than that,” Ed says, an eyebrow raised.

Oswald turns, hits a button concealed beneath his desk, and Ed is being dragged out of his office by the mook outside the door before Oswald’s even lifted his hand back up. Ed laughs all the while.

Ed is dragged through the Lounge and tossed unceremoniously back near the bar. He has all of six seconds to smooth his suit down before a woman is approaching him, skin shock-white and spiked hair blue.

Livewire.

She rips Ed’s cane from his hand with a strength that surprises him. Ed’s opening his mouth to protest when she shushes him with a finger against his lips, eyes fixed on the cane’s dial.

“This thing’s got juice,” she says, voice whip-sharp, “I could feel it go off from out here.”

She looks up at Ed then, considering him with white-blue eyes that shift in color as if sparks are crackling within them.

“It’s been a while, Livewire,” Ed greets as he yanks his cane back, holding it behind him to deter any further grabs.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” Livewire says with a menacing tilt of the head, “But, ‘round these parts, electricity’s sort of _my_ thing, and I don’t exactly take kindly to imitators.”

“You needn’t worry. It’s just an incidental interest. You know I’ve got quite the esteemed shtick of my own.”

“Tread carefully, Eddie. Everything they say about those who play with fire holds doubly true for those who play with _this_ ,” she rubs her fingers together, static electricity sparking between the pads, “And true, too, for those who play with bats and penguins, now that I think about it.”

“Luckily, I can handle all of the above,” Ed assures her, irritation sparking.

“Of course you can,” is her only reply before she’s walking off.

Ed stares after her, jaw clenched tight, then turns to tip his hat toward his doppleganger bartender (whose name is Hector, Ed has since learned, though the minimal space in his head Ed has reserved for him still refers to him primarily as ‘ _the lookalike_ ’).

The Lookalike raises a bottle of luxuriously packaged vodka in a clear invite to come forward, but Ed shakes his head. He’s got big plans to set in motion tonight.

He heads outside and walks home, thoughts spinning madly as he strokes at his cane and can’t help but to return to one phrase of Oswald’s again and again, the well of rage they open within him egging on every step: _you’re pathetic, you’re pathetic, you’re pathetic_ …

“We’ll see about _that_ ,” he says aloud to himself once inside his apartment, staring down eagerly at the mass of newspaper clippings and scribbled notes that have accrued across his desk.

He doesn’t sleep a wink all night, pulling ideas together and making the sometimes frantic, other times threatening phone calls needed to secure some needed resources. By the time the sun has risen, its rays lighting up the now-tidy arrangement of written plans sitting in a stack on Ed’s desk, Ed is sure he has a plot that will earn him a ‘breaking news’ segment and the fearful respect of _bats_ and _penguins_ alike.

It’s almost simple, really, by Ed’s standards at least (but only all the more brilliant for it): an abandoned warehouse, a kidnapped newshost, a trail of riddles for The Bat to follow, and his cane in hand. The cane, in truth, is almost more the point than anything, a piece of rebranding that will catch Gotham’s almighty Batman unawares and garner Ed a win to hold over his head (and over Oswald’s, because _no_ , The Riddler does _not_ fear some costumed do-gooder too chicken to ever even kill him).

Ed is approaching this as something of a sketch for a larger project to come. A warning. No animal-themed oddities will be getting a leg up over him again.

He turns as he hears a door swing loudly open, and then in The Bat stalks, dark and menacing as ever, cloak flowing behind him.

“Batsy,” Ed greets him, wide smile spreading further when the bound-and-gagged newshost behind him begins grunting out aborted cries for help, “Would you believe me if I said I was _just_ thinking about you?”

Ed bites down faux-flirtatiously on his lip for added provocation. He watches as The Bat makes a rather predictable lunge at him, foot hitting a concealed panel on the floor and ensnaring him within the net-like trap Ed has spent the better part of the night constructing.

Ed giggles delightedly as he watches Batman attempt to cut through it, not a one of the weapons in his hip-bound arsenal capable of tearing through the material.

“I’d tell you to stop wasting your time,” Ed says, stepping forward with a bounce, “But I’m enjoying the sight of your struggle far too much.”

“What’s the game this time, Riddler?” The Bat asks with a snarl.

“It’s simple, really,” Ed replies, swiveling the point of his cane against the floor, “Gotham’s own _beloved_ Sterling Echols here will have the chance to answer a few riddles. For each one that he inevitably gets wrong, I’ll slice off a digit.”

Ed pulls a blade out of his pocket, snapping it open with a flourish.

“And where do I come in?”

“Not a whole lot of audience participation in this one, I’m afraid,” Ed says with a play-frown, “You just have to sit back and enjoy the show. Oh, and I should mention: you’ll also be penalized for all his incorrect answers.”

Ed lifts his cane and inserts the handle through the netting, caressing it down the exposed half of The Bat’s cheekbone.

“I’ve got this new gadget, see,” Ed continues, voice low, “And I’m eager for you to _feel_ what it can do.”

Batman jerks away at that, lips thin.

“Aw, don’t worry,” Ed laughs, “I’m not going to kill him. I need someone who will talk to the press, and who better than Gotham’s most trusted news anchor?”

Ed looks back at Echols, then, whose eyes are squeezed shut and leaking tears.

“And I won’t kill you, either,” Ed assures The Bat, turning back to face him, “This is only round one of the new game, after all. So! How about we get started?”

Echols makes a desperate, pleading sound.

“Like music to my ears,” Ed leers, spinning back on his heel to hover over the still-weeping man, “Alright, Mr. Echols, are you ready for riddle number one?”

Another sound, more helpless than the last. Ed laughs and bends low enough to rip the spit-soaked ball gag out of the man’s mouth.

“I cling to your skin, stuck to you in a bind,” Ed begins, digging the tip of his pointer finger into his chest, “I stay with you always, yet you leave me behind. What am I?”

“Please, Mr. Riddler, sir, I have - I can make you a rich -”

Ed sighs.

“Wrong,” he announces, taking a blade to the man’s right ring finger and severing it in a single fluid motion.

Ed watches the digit drop to the floor with a sick bloody _thump_ , smiling down at it as howls of pain fill the room.

He’s moving toward The Bat now, blade back in his pocket.

“It will change nothing about his fate _or_ yours, but you’re welcome to give the riddle a try if you’d like.”

“Fingerprints,” The Bat answers immediately through grit teeth.

“Bravo,” Ed says, genuinely pleased, “Now, your reward: you get to be the first to experience this particular feature of my new friend here.”

Ed turns the cane in his hand and stalks around The Bat’s hanging form, settling at his back. He taps the handle against his own palm, feeling the heavy weight of it with a smile, then swings it with full force, making impact with The Bat’s back.

To his credit, The Bat doesn’t make a sound. Ed swings again. Then again, and again, gaining strength and momentum with each vicious swipe.

He drops the cane to his side (still in hand) only when his arm tires, panting. Ed moves back to stand before his face, laughing all over again at the clearly-pained twist of his mouth.

“Inelegant, maybe, but so _fun_ ,” Ed smiles, “Wait ‘till you get a load of its other tricks.”

Ed’s still got his eyes trained on The Bat when he hears a faint weeping noise behind him.

“Mr. Echols,” Ed turns, “Don’t fret, I haven’t forgotten you. On toward riddle number two we move.”

Ed steps in front of him.

“I can never be seen, but I can be heard,” Ed starts, a gloved hand gesturing toward his eyes, then his ears, “I bounce back at you, to the last word. What am I?”

“I - oh god - a sports ball? - I don’t -”

“And to think,” Ed says with a sigh, “The clue was in your name. _Wrong_.”

Blade back in hand, Ed amputates the ring finger on his left hand this time, a little slower, savoring the length and decibel of the scream it rips out of him.

“Batso?” Ed asks before he’s even turned around.

“An echo.”

“Very good,” Ed spins, stalking forward, “How about a bonus one? Full disclosure: I consider the last person I used this one on at least moderately intelligent, but it stumped him. Are you ready?”

Ed presses his cane through the netting again, digging the handle into his cheek.

“Advancing every other moment, in between reverse. Leave me to my own device, I get direct and worse,” Ed pushes the handle in still harder, “What am I?”

The Bat blinks once, then twice. No reply.

Ed laughs and spins the dial far further than he’d dared with Oswald.

He barely has time to register the surge of white-blue moving down the cane’s base before he’s seized by the heated, _excruciating_ shock of his electric blast backfiring on him.

He can faintly hear himself screaming, and then all goes black.

Ed comes to in a state of full-body ache and blurry confusion. He blinks his eyes to find a shock of blue hair hovering over his prone form.

“Livewire?” he asks, voice wobbly.

“The one and only,” she smiles, lips painted blue, “I did try to warn you about playing with electricity, pal, didn’t I?”

Ed sits up with a struggle, blinking blearily at the damp, garbage-strewn alley around him.

_Electricity, bats and penguins_ , Ed vaguely remembers, limbs screaming. He looks back up at Livewire. She’s holding his cane.

“ _You_ ,” Ed says, accusatorily, “What did you do to my cane?”

“You should have never let me touch it,” Livewire laughs, throwing it into his lap dismissively, “I made some tweaks the second my fingertips made contact.”

“ _Why_?” Ed asks, too weakened to process the anger he knows is going to burst like an explosive dam the moment he’s thinking clearly again.

“When The Penguin offers me a fat stack of cash to do something that requires less energy than _blinking_ for me, I don’t ask too many questions.”

“Oswald,” Ed says, something hot rushing in his head, “He got you to...in the time between... _how_ …”

“Jeez,” she says, almost pitying, “That blast did a number on you.”

Ed puts his hands over his face, pulling his domino mask off and rubbing his eyes vigorously.

“How did I - where’s The Bat? Sterling Echols?”

“I left them right where you did,” Livewire replies with a shrug, “I figure they’ll find a way out of the situation somehow.”

“And you -”

“Don’t strain yourself. Got you out of there, yes. Penguin offered me an even fatter stack of cash to do just that. Again, no questions on my end, so don’t bother asking.”

Suddenly too weak to maintain his sitting-up position, Ed slumps back onto his back, face buried in his hands. Marrow-deep humiliation washes over him. He’s blinking back tears and praying Livewire can’t tell.

“Well, I gotta be off,” Livewire says, giving no indication either way of how attuned to Ed’s current predicament she is, “See you around, Eddie. Better luck next time.”

He hears her walk off and allows a few tears to slip between his fingers, wishing for the first time in a long while that he was dead.

Some time passes before Ed hears his phone goes off. In a sluggish haze, he pulls it out of his pocket.

It’s a text from Oswald.

Already snarling, he opens it.

_Tell me, Ed_... _Now that you’ve experienced it for yourself, do you count yourself among those who find electrostimulation of this caliber quite pleasurable?_

He flips his phone closed with so much force he can hear the screen crack.

Red-hot rage awakening his trembling muscles, Ed sits up, then stands, leaning down on his cane.

“That’s our truce off, then,” he growls aloud to himself.

Ed takes a step forward, then another, and another, blood-soaked fantasies of revenge impelling him when his muscles threaten failure.

_Hope you’re prepared to enjoy your last living night on this earth,_ _Oswald_ , he thinks.

The grip on his cane grows stronger with every step forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The electricity riddle is lifted from _Batman_ #23.2 (2013) "Solitaire", written by Scott Snyder and Ray Fawkes. 
> 
> The other riddles I loosely adapted from ones floating around the internet and the cultural stratosphere. I did write the rhymes myself but can't take credit for the central concepts!


	4. Chapter 4

Rationally, Ed knows what he should do.

He should calm down and lie low. He should let himself physically and mentally recover. He should, most of all, take _time_ to piece together the perfect puzzle to rid him of Oswald Cobblepot for good.

He should _not_ do what every still-aching muscle in his body is begging him to do and storm into Oswald’s office to murder him on the spot. Historically, after all, allowing rage and his own ego to cloud pragmatic judgement has ended poorly, _especially_ where Oswald is concerned. He needs to be smart about this, measured and patient. Let Oswald think he’s won for a little longer and then strike when the high of it all has worn down.

Yes, Ed knows what he should do, and he’s halfway-successfully doing it when Harley bursts in, unannounced, only one eye slathered in the usual smears of color that have become her trademark.

“Eddie,” she gasps, voice wobbly, “I only just heard what happened - are you okay?”

She’s seated next to him on his couch between blinks of his eyes, her hands worrying at his face, and every iota of resolve Ed has been clinging to for the past 24 hours evaporates into the ether.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps, venomously enough that she blinks in confusion, and then he’s on his feet, breaths coming hard as the lingering concern on her face only stokes the flames of his ire.

“Are you -”

“I’m fine,” Ed repeats, the illusion of calm more convincing this time around, or so he hopes, “And was in fact just readying to head out before you _barged in_ here without warning. So if you don’t mind -”

“Okay,” Harley says, the caution in her voice doing _nothing_ to soothe Ed’s mood, “But if you do ever wanna talk about it, Eddie, you know where to find me.”

She’s wrapping her arms around him before Ed can protest and bouncing back out the door just as quickly, flashing him one last sympathetic smile as it clicks shut.

Ed frets as he watches her leave.

Harley was prone to overreaction, to be sure, but rushing to comfort him without even finishing her makeup? Clear indication that talk of his misstep on the Gotham rumor mill was even worse than he’d feared. He’d been relieved to discover that a multi-criminal Arkham breakout had offered some distraction from that news host's weepy recounts of the affair, but rogue gossip was vicious, and there was no doubt at all Oswald was doing everything in his power to exacerbate it.

Oswald, who was growing smugger and more power-happy with every hour spent unchallenged atop Gotham’s throne.

Oswald, who had the damn nerve to think _Ed_ pathetic when _he_ was the one who took a beating for him no less than two weeks ago.

Oswald, who was probably currently on the night’s ninth glass of wine, laughing with some equally self-important criminal mask over how he’d bested The Riddler again, the talk of it filling every corner of the place.

 _Oswald_. Covering up his own undying _weakness_ by making sure Ed’s seeming failure was as much a presence in the Lounge’s principal room as it’d been back when he was still its centerpiece.

Screw what he _should_ be doing, Ed decides, face hot and hands trembling.

With a snarl, he tears through his closet to find a suit in the shade of green that’ll look most becoming with Oswald Cobblepot’s blood splattered across it.

He picks one out in an almost-pastel lime he’s never worn before and makes quick work of changing, in too much of a heated rush to bother with a domino mask today. His bowler hat he sets atop his head with all the drama of a king donning a crown, and he _does_ make sure to grab his cane as he steps outside (Ed will _not_ let Oswald ruin it for him - all memory of its sabotaged backfire will cease to matter when its weighted handle is bludgeoning at Oswald’s legs, sides, his head).

The walk to the Iceberg Lounge passes as if in a fugue state, Ed’s grip on time and purpose slipping away until he’s passing the guard at the entrance with not so much as a glance and stepping inside, blood pumping so loudly in his ears he can’t even make out the music.

Ed roams inside, eyes scanning furiously until he spots Oswald at the bar, chatting affably with Ed’s lookalike. Ed stills for a second, suddenly and sharply cognizant of the fact that he has no concrete gameplan here. His breath speeds as he watches Oswald flutter his lashes up at the bartender, who looks to be heaping lavish flattery onto Oswald in a transparent effort to secure his job.

He’s standing there, still staring, wondering if he should rethink his very presence here when Oswald lets out a particularly pleased laugh and slides his hand up the bartender’s arm.

Ed sees a blaze of red and closes the space between them in just a few bounding steps, gripping Oswald by the upper arm and turning him roughly towards him.

“Ed, _what_ do you -”

“Your office. _Now_.”

The sentence has barely left his mouth when Ed hears the distinct sound of a gun cocking. He tilts his head to see his lookalike holding a glock on him.

He releases his grip on Oswald’s arm to give the lookalike a cheerful wave.

“And here I thought we were pals,” Ed grins, left hand tightening around his cane in case things get violent.

“It’s quite alright, Hector,” Oswald interrupts, voice steady, “The Riddler here just wants to talk, I’m sure.”

 _Hector_ holds steady for a few moments longer before dropping the gun. Every patron in the twenty-foot vicinity is quiet, watching raptly (and _oh_ , Ed can’t help but to relish the attention).

“After you, then,” Oswald says with a pointing gesture, watching Ed with disdain.

Ed tosses his cane from his left hand to his right and leads the way, the muscle memory of having made this same walk several times now propelling him forward as his thoughts race, frantic and incoherent: Harley’s ‘ _Eddie, I only just heard_ ’; the burning muscle spasm of electric shock; Freeze’s ice-cold grip; Ed’s phone screen cracking; a pale hand running up The Lookalike Bartender’s arm; Oswald, centimeters from his face, commanding that he beg for his help…

Ed is fuming afresh by the time they reach Oswald’s office, nearly recoiling when Oswald brushes past him to unlock the door and let them both in. Oswald watches with a raised eyebrow as Ed closes and locks the door behind them.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s panting.

Ed presses a button on the base of his cane and sets it standing against the wall. However _this_ ends up, he knows he wants to use his hands first.

Oswald stands in the center of the room, a hand cradling the arm opposite. He has the same curious look he’d sported when Ed had shoved his cane against his throat and promised him a riddle. Ed can’t decide if it makes him feel calmer or angrier.

“The first thing you should know,” Ed begins, voice so low he can feel the scratch of it in his throat, “Is that I’ve just disabled any and all surveillance in this room.”

He gestures back toward his cane, then clasps his hands together. Oswald’s features tighten but he says nothing.

“The next thing you should know,” Ed continues, stalking closer, “Is that you have no one to blame but yourself for this predicament. If you hadn’t broken the terms of our truce-”

Oswald interrupts him with a sardonic laugh. Ed closes his mouth into a thin, thin line.

“Two questions, if I _may_ ,” Oswald says, raising two fingers in the air, “How did I break the terms of our truce? And what exactly _is_ this ‘predicament’?”

“You _broke_ our _truce_ ,” Ed snarls, skin heating, “When you attempted to fry me with my own weapon.”

“Well, if Livewire tells it true, I don’t know that ‘attempt’ is the word I would use.”

Oswald’s eyes are glittering green. Ed’s skin gets hotter.

“Our truce,” Oswald continues, stepping forward, close enough now that Ed could backhand him without needing to move, “Was a literal ceasefire. I don’t kill you, you don’t kill me. That’s it. And you, my dear, are clearly not dead.”

“This was different,” Ed insists, “It was personal.”

“When has anything between us _not_ been personal?” Oswald asks, sincerely, almost softly, and Ed is fairly sure he has never, ever wanted to kill Oswald as much as he wants to right now.

“ _Enough_ , Oswald,” Ed spits, “You crossed a line and you _know_ it.”

Ed reaches forward and grips at the knot of Oswald’s tie with only a touch of force.

“And you _know_ what happens when we cross lines with each other,” Ed finishes, tugging slightly.

“Ah, yes,” Oswald smiles, eyes unblinking, “ _Predicaments._ ”

“You asked earlier what exactly this one would look like,” Ed smiles back, a model portrait of menace, “And, well, _that’s_ up to you.”

Oswald blinks in response, the way one blinks at something presenting only a mild nuisance.

Ed chooses to ignore the non-reaction. He’ll get the one he wants soon enough.

“I confess, Oswald, that I came in here with the full intention of bludgeoning you to death,” Ed says, matter-of-fact, “But then you got to talking, and you _are_ right in one regard: I am alive. And for that, I will grant you the mercy of a choice.”

Oswald raises his eyebrows. Ed twists the fabric of his tie in his hand.

“You can take the planned bludgeoning, or,” Ed leans in, neck craned down, “You can beg for your life.”

Oswald’s eyebrows raise still further, as if he’s awaiting more.

Ed twists the tie fabric harder with a punctuating, hard tug.

“Bludgeoning or begging?” Oswald asks, “ _That’s_ my choice?”

“Yes,” Ed replies, a smirk twisting his features.

There’s a few beats of silence, tension crackling, and then -

Oswald laughs.

 _Laughs_. Eyes closed, grin so wide Ed can see even his bottom row of teeth.

In a paroxysm of rage, Ed closes his hands around Oswald’s throat. The pressure is just light enough to allow him to speak, but at least cuts off the infuriating sound of his laughter.

“So you choose death, then,” Ed snarls, fingers twitching at Oswald’s skin, “Not the choice anyone with a modicum of sense would have made, but, well -”

Ed’s fingers tighten, tighten, _tighten_ , then loosen. Oswald sputters, but his eyes are like fire.

“You are _hopeless_ , Ed,” Oswald’s voice is strained with Ed’s hands still at his neck, but he speaks with a contented surety that makes Ed want to squeeze him dead _silent_ , “Bludgeoning me? To death? I mean, how do you think _that’s_ going to look? The Riddler, Gotham’s own headlining ‘ _Prince of Puzzles_ ,’ takes out The Penguin by - brute force?”

“I hardly think anyone is going to be concerned with the ‘how’ of it all,” Ed scoffs, fingers tightening down again.

“Your reputation is already in the gutter,” Oswald manages with a wheeze.

Ed frowns at that, slackening his grip to allow Oswald to continue.

“You humiliated yourself in front of The Bat and Gotham’s most adored news anchor,” Oswald hisses, gleeful and _nasty_ , “The minimal amount of respect you’d accrued ‘round these parts since your big freeze has plummeted - you should just _hear_ some of the things Arkham’s newest breakouts have to say about you. And your next move is to beat The Penguin to death like some kind of garden-variety sadist? Do you _really_ think that’s going to help?”

Oswald is laughing again, more lightly this time but no less maddening.

Ed’s hold at Oswald’s throat is wavering. That rational part of his brain he’s spent the better part of the night ignoring is unexpectedly alit: _He’s got a point, you know_.

Ed closes his eyes, shakes his head, and attempts to shut it off.

“You’ll be dead,” Ed insists, _stubborn_ , jaw clenched tight, “Dead and quiet and _gone_. That paradisal promise is the priority right now.”

“ _Paradisal_ ,” Oswald repeats skeptically, with a chuckle, “Fine. Get on with it, then. I’ll die with a _smile_ knowing your criminal career dies with me, _Riddler_.”

 _He’s got a point, you know_ , that damn voice in his head repeats, _He’s got a point, he’s got a point, he’s got a point_ …

Ed can’t help it: he drops his hands, mind reeling.

It’s only a split-second of hesitation, but it’s all Oswald needs.

Suddenly, almost too quickly for Ed to process it at all, Oswald has a seize of his arm and and a blade at his throat.

Oswald’s on tip-toe, face intimidatingly close, the cold press at Ed’s neck firm enough to sting.

Oswald looks positively _feral_ , teeth bared and pupils blown. They’re both breathing hard, just a beat out of sync with the other.

“Well, Ed,” Oswald says, voice rough, “What do you say we give you the same options _you_ gave _me_? Are you prepared to beg for your life?”

Oswald slides the tip of the knife up his throat. Ed can feel the prick of his skin breaking and the drip of his blood.

The shock of the pain makes his head clear. He realizes he’s smiling.

“Oh, I won’t be begging,” Ed declares, “You definitely aren’t going to kill me.”

“And what,” Oswald spits, face contorting with rage, “Makes you so sure of _that_?”

“Oh, that one’s easy,” Ed replies, and _he’s_ the one laughing now, “You still love me.”

Oswald gapes at that, eyes and mouth widened into perfect circles.

The press of the blade at Ed’s neck diminishes.

It’s only a split-second of hesitation, but it’s all Ed needs.

He rips the blade from Oswald’s hand and tosses it onto the floor without breaking eye contact. Oswald is stunned, still and silent.

Ed’s eyes graze over Oswald’s long blackened lashes and the spit-shine of his parted lips.

He realizes with a surge of improvisational heat that he can still get _exactly_ what he came for.

“You know, Oswald,” he says then, gentle and _strategic_ , “You’re pretty when you’re quiet.”

Ed watches Oswald’s eyes water and then he’s leaning down, tilting Oswald’s chin up, and pressing their lips together, hot and hard.

Oswald moans into his mouth, a surprised and desperate sound that rips something like a growl from Ed’s own throat. Oswald’s lips are quivering but otherwise motionless, inexperience shining through, so Ed moves for them both, tongue sliding into the heat of his mouth, rubbing wetly against Oswald’s. Ed brings a hand to Oswald’s jaw and feels him melt into the kiss, his tongue stroking back tentatively, then _surer_ as Ed massages approvingly at his neck.

Ed’s lips and tongue keep moving, guiding then reacting to Oswald’s own, speed and pressure intensifying. Oswald is issuing a string of urgent, hungry noises, every other sounding like a blurred attempt at breathing Ed’s name, and _oh_ , Ed thinks, _this will be so easy._

Ed breaks the kiss, then, smiling when Oswald makes a confused sound and pushing him back gently, lips sucking softly at Oswald’s neck as Oswald fumbles backwards until he’s up against the edge of his desk, crying out when Ed’s licks and sucks harden into nips at the tender skin of his throat.

“ _Ed_ ,” Oswald moans, and he grows bolder, a hand gripping tightly at Ed’s waist, “Ed…”

Ed brings his lips to Oswald’s mouth again, kissing deep, hands settling at Oswald’s collarbones and rubbing down his torso. The layers upon layers of fabric that encase Oswald’s small form aren’t enough to conceal the heave of his chest or the tremble in his limbs.

Dropping a hand to Oswald’s hip, Ed’s fingerpads rub circles into the clothed flesh beneath, thumb close enough to the seam of Oswald’s pants to feel the tell-tale swell of his arousal.

Ed kiss-walks up Oswald’s cheekbone to press his lips against his ear, breathing hard into the shell of it.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Ed asks, thumb inching closer to the seam of his pants to leave no doubt what he means by that question.

Oswald only gasps in reply, hand spasming where it still sits at Ed’s waist, so Ed repeats:

“Tell me, Oswald, do you want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” Oswald breathes, shaking all over, “Yes, Ed, please.”

Ed presses a soft bite into his earlobe.

“Please what?” Ed asks, light, almost playful.

“Please touch me,” Oswald gasps.

Ed relishes the sound of that, the _desperation_ , and the way Oswald arcs up against him as he says it.

 _You could stop here_ , comes that voice in Ed’s head, _You’ve taken enough, he’s as good as begged…_

It’s all too tempting, though, _intoxicating_ , and Ed wants _more,_  needs Oswald crying, pleading, coming in his hand.

“Ed,” comes Oswald’s voice this time, throaty and low, “ _Please_.”

Ed’s hand moves to Oswald’s crotch as if commanded, rubbing at the upright bulge of it, and Oswald _yelps_ , both arms circling ‘round Ed’s back as if in an embrace, fingers digging into his shoulderblades.

Ed wraps as much of his hand around the still-clothed length as he can, gripping at the base and moving up, then down, and Oswald’s making noises so enraptured Ed can’t even imagine what the grip of Ed’s hand at his _bared_ cock will do to him.

Ed rubs and rubs and rubs, until Oswald is rutting up into his hand, shameless and utterly desperate. He unzips Oswald’s pants, then, parting the fabric and looking down at where the shaft and head of his erect cock are sticking through the opening in his purple briefs.

Reaching for the head, Ed strokes an experimental fingertip against the wet slit, smiling when Oswald buries his head into Ed’s chest in response. Ed slides the fingertip, still mostly dry, down the pink-red shaft, and he’s pretty sure Oswald is flat-out weeping now, body in tremors.

Ed has no doubt he could get Oswald to climax (and _beyond_ ) just like this, but he wants him bared completely, so he slides Oswald’s pants and briefs down his sides, eyeing the pale skin of his hips and the dark tufts of his pubic hair.

“Oswald,” Ed says, looking up to where his head is still buried against him, “Look at me.”

Oswald complies with a sniff, green eyes streaming and skin blotched red. He looks wholly _wrecked_. Ed’s breath catches in his throat at the sight, just for a moment, before he’s swallowing back the surge of _something_ in his chest and back on track.

He lifts the palm-side of his hand up to Oswald’s face. Oswald eyes it with wet-eyed curiosity.

“Lick it,” Ed commands, voice soft, laughing when Oswald’s brows knit in suspicion, like the daze of needy arousal is fading and he’s remembering Ed is not to be trusted.

“Come on,” Ed urges, “Just trust me, it’ll make what’s coming feel better.”

“ _You_ lick it,” Oswald says, a little bite to it, and Ed is surprised to find himself just _delighted_ at the sound of it.

“Okay,” Ed agrees, and he turns his hand toward himself and licks thick wet bands up the palm and each digit, making quite the show of it, eyes fixed on Oswald as his tongue works.

Oswald watches him intently, jaw slack and eyes bright.

“Now you,” Ed says after a final theatrical swipe of his tongue up his middle finger.

He turns the palm back toward Oswald and watches heatedly as Oswald shyly inches toward it, then licks up, down, side to side, until Ed’s hand is dripping.

“That’s good,” Ed says, and Oswald’s cheeks go redder.

Ed drops his spit-wet hand back down to Oswald’s crotch and Oswald promptly buries his face back into Ed’s chest. Ed wraps his hands at the base of Oswald’s cock and slides up, slowly, savoring the long languid whine he can feel the vibration of even through his suit.

Ed reaches the head and jerks back down, quick this time, and Oswald’s whining louder still. Ed strokes up-down, again and again and again, and it’s not long before Oswald is howling, choking, driving his hips up to meet Ed’s hand with a fervor that almost makes Ed blush.

Oswald’s getting close, Ed can tell, the jerks of his hips arrhythmic and his cries getting higher in pitch.

Ed stops, suddenly and without warning.

Oswald makes a pleading sound into Ed’s shoulder.

“Do you want to come?” Ed asks, and it’s almost cruel.

“Yes,” Oswald pants, face turning to the side, hands clutching at Ed tighter.

“Tell me,” Ed persists, “Tell me what you want.”

Oswald growls in frustration, looking up, eyes steely.

“Ed, god dammit, just -”

“Just what?” Ed asks, sweetly.

“ _Just make me fucking come_ ,” Oswald hisses, fevered and angry, and it’s not _quite_ what he was angling for, but the sound of _that_ sentence leaving _Oswald’s_ mouth is so novel and unexpected that Ed pushes no further.

He brings his lips back to Oswald’s neck, sucking, licking, biting as his hand resumes its jerking motions, gaining speed and momentum on each swipe back down, and Oswald is crying out, louder, louder, louder, then -

Oswald comes, _explosively_ , Ed’s senses overwhelmed with the spill of it: the sight of Oswald’s red and scrunched-up face; the smell, both familiar and not; the feel, sticky and somehow _everywhere_.

Oswald’s slumped down against him in the come-down, breathing hard, bare-assed and dripping with his pants still around his thighs. Ed wraps his arms around him, rubbing circles into his still-clothed back, smiling with giddy triumph.

After a few minutes, the reality of what just happened seems to hit Oswald all at once, his back stiffening as he pulls away from Ed and frantically yanks his pants back up over his hips, eyes on the floor.

Oswald turns then, leaning heavily against his desk, breathing ragged.

There’s so much Ed wants to say. Primarily: _I told you, Oswald. I told you I’d get you to beg_. _I told you._

He can’t summon the words, somehow, though. Not with Oswald like _this_ , looking even smaller hunched in what feels almost like defeat over his own desk.

Ed opens his mouth, then closes it.

He’ll gloat about this later, he decides. He sees himself out without a word, picking his cane up on the way.

It isn’t until he’s back in one of the Lounge’s more populated rooms that he realizes, with a flash of panic, that he’s erect himself, and quite noticeably so in the pale shade of tonight’s suit.

He slips into a bathroom, closing a stall door shut behind him. Eyes fluttering closed, the events of the past hour wash over him as if in a supercut:

A blade at his throat. The feeling of Oswald’s neck beneath his hands. That smug, infuriating laugh of his. His defeated slump over his desk. His hand up that bartender’s arm. His voice, desperate, then sharp as a razor: _please touch me, Ed, please, just make me fucking come_ …

Ed bites down on his lower lip.

Trembling, he slips his hand into his pants.


	5. Chapter 5

It isn’t exactly _surprising_ when Ed finds himself banned from The Iceberg Lounge shortly after his rendezvous with Oswald, but it’s aggravating nonetheless.

It’s fine, at first, news that Ed receives with a self-congratulatory laugh: _I really got under your skin, didn’t I, Oswald_ , he’d thought as he’d walked off, paying only mocking mind to the line of spectators who’d eyed him as he’d been turned away, _Won’t even face me - is it because you’re scared of what you’d let me do to you the second time around?_

Oswald severing this most reliable line of communication between them was as good as a surrender, no doubt, an acknowledgement that Ed had pushed too far and tricked Oswald into revealing too much. To shut Ed out of The Lounge was effectively to end their game, a move Oswald would pull only if certain of his own impending loss.

It’s a comfort, knowing that Oswald _knows_ he’s been well and truly beaten, a comfort Ed relishes, again and again.

It’s a comfort that fades quickly, however, because, as it turns out, half the fun of beating Oswald is getting to experience his ensuing misery firsthand. Ed regrets, now, that he’d left his office as quickly as he had. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time that another opportunity to gloat might not come.

Equally frustrating is the fact that Oswald still has the city in his slimy grip, none of his _adoring_ subjects aware of how he’d wept into The Riddler’s chest and begged for orgasm, trembling and stripped bare and utterly, pathetically desperate.

Ed has _won_ , forced Oswald to betray himself in ways intimate and humiliating, but there’s only so many times he can roll around in that private reality before the more public one takes firmer hold: Ed has _won_ , yes, and Oswald knows it, but no one else does.

And _that_ will not do.

“ _Your reputation is in the gutter_ ,” Oswald had sneered, and Ed may have quieted him but it was still, regretfully, true - Ed can hear it in the cloying pity undergirding the several check-in messages Harley has left for him over the past few days, and can see it every time he opens a newspaper and finds not even _speculation_ as to his current whereabouts.

Ed had figured it best to lie low until news of his electric mishap had blown over, but fame in Gotham is fickle and Ed can feel the beginnings of a slide into irrelevance. A slide that’s all the more slippery now that he’s been shut out of the city’s premiere criminal hot spot - so much of The Riddler’s pre-Livewire momentum had built up simply by making his presence persistently _known_ , a move hard to maintain now that he’s lost his easiest point of access to Gotham’s underworld.

What Ed needs is something that will make his own grip on this city palpably _felt_ again. Felt by the police force, the vigilantes (one in particular), and, of course, by The Penguin.

_If my hold at just your cock scared you this much, Oswald,_ Ed thinks, _wait until you get a load of this_.

The solution comes to him quickly, in a rush of white heat: a string of bodies, riddled and abused, that will let Gotham know its beloved Riddler is still very much in business and, as a happy consequence, make it impossible for Oswald to continue ignoring him.

Ed moves quickly, making lists, outlines, and modifications to his cane, eager to get the ball rolling on this plot before some other rogue leaps up to steal his destined shine. After a night of work, he’s grinning down happily at a planned catalogue of Penguin-proximate victims, riddles and torments lovingly assigned to each.

The first of these victims is perhaps the subtlest of his selections: the most corrupt member of Gotham’s police force and so, naturally, the one most reliably in Oswald’s pocket.

Ed catches the pig on his nightly prowl and knocks him out with the weighted end of his cane. He drags him into an alleyway and waits, patiently, for him to come to.

“Hello there,” Ed greets him, charmingly, once his eyes start blinking open and the panic sets in.

“I worked for the GCPD once, you know,” Ed continues with a smile as he ties the man’s wrists and ankles together, tightening the knots _hard_ , “So I know, even more than most, that it’s a futile effort to place any hope at all in your intellect.”

Ed pulls him up off his back until he’s in a seated position, ignoring the man’s protests, muffled as they are through the duct tape over his mouth.

“That being said, I’ve got a riddle for you anyway,” Ed says, “It’s an easy one, so maybe you’ll surprise us both...but I doubt it.”

Ed rips the duct tape off his mouth and watches as the man sputters, squirming in his restraints.

“Swinging at your side, in response to a fall I rise,” Ed begins, stretching his arm above his head, “Upwards do I reach, and shield you from the skies. What am I?”

“Swinging at - up - I don’t - can I hear it again?”

Ed sighs.

“An umbrella, you _moron_.”

Ed offs him cleanly, with a bullet to the brain (but not before he shoots a couple into his kneecaps first, watching him writhe and howl as his own heartrate escalates with the _rush_ of it).

He pulls a can of spray paint from his jacket and scrawls the full text of the riddle across the dingy brick wall to his right, emphasizing the question mark at the end with several added coats of color.

“Maybe one of your peers will fare better when faced with this simple question than you did,” Ed announces to the still-bleeding corpse, “But, again, I doubt it. This city wouldn’t need a man flying around like an oversized bat if there was even a _lick_ of competence _anywhere_ in our police force.”

Ed tosses the half-emptied can of paint onto the man’s still chest, smiling even through his disdain.

“Luckily for them, if not for you, there are plenty more clues to come,” Ed laughs, turning to admire his wall graffiti once more before leaving the whole sordid scene behind him for some unfortunate to find.

That’s one down, then, and the work’s night done, Ed still tingling all over from the thrill of it. He’s abuzz and yearning for something _more_ , heart in his throat.

He passes a bar on his walk home and enters, the neon pink and yellow lights of its interior nothing like the Iceberg Lounge, but the music thrums and the liquor tastes just fine, so Ed lingers, watching the bodies it houses closely, ordinary but full of life as they are.

As Ed surveys the buoyant crowd, a man catches his eye. He’s small and pale, prongs of jet-black hair falling over shadowy eyes, and he looks so forcibly like Oswald for a moment that Ed puts his drink down.

Penguin’s rise to power has come with a small crop of sad imitators who model their aesthetics off his own, so it’s not altogether novel or shocking to find a person who so resembles him, but there’s something electric about their eye contact, here and now, and a brightness in the man’s manner that captures something essential about Oswald more difficult to imitate than his style.

The man is moving toward him, then, and Ed feels a flare of alarm that surprises him. He breaks eye contact to drain his drink, slaps a bill down onto the counter, and leaves without looking back.

Once home, he determinedly ignores the prickle of heat in his skin and crotch and wills himself to quick sleep, the promise of tomorrow’s plot all he lets himself think about.

Tomorrow comes and Ed’s head is clear again, focused just where it needs to be. He runs a hand over his inked-up list and heads outside as soon as night falls, an eager tension in his limbs and chest.

This second victim had been the easiest to choose: the Iceberg Lounge door guard who’d told him, with a rough hand to his chest, that he was no longer allowed entry.

There had been a satisfied twist to his mouth all too reminiscent of the ones he used to see on the morons at the GCPD, or his childhood tormentors, a twist that said: _Don’t forget your place, beneath me always._

Ed had laughed it off, then, but feels retrospective rage now, faced with the man before him again, in a warehouse this time, his hands strung up above his head and his temple bleeding.

“You get three guesses,” Ed tells him, gripping a blade in his hand, “Are you ready?”

The man only stares up at him, offering no response.

“I move as I will, any which way, your triumph or loss under my sway,” Ed begins regardless, “Of my body, some say I have two - both stand forever above you. What am I?”

Ed pulls the gag out of his mouth.

“Guess number one. Go.”

“Fuck you,” the guard spits.

“There’s nothing more disappointing than a man who won’t even _try_ ,” Ed tuts.

He takes his blade and slides it into the meat of the guard’s thigh, careful to avoid the artery.

The man grunts in pain as Ed pulls out, teeth gnashing together.

“Time for guess number two,” Ed announces, cheerful, “Let’s make this one better.”

“I said _fuck you_ ,” he repeats.

The blade is sinking into the belly next. Ed twists the knife for good measure and goes warm all over when it rips an agonized scream from the man.

“Well, I can probably guess your final answer,” Ed says as he pulls the blade back out, hand dripping with blood, “But you _do_ get one more try.”

“Fuck y-”

Ed drives the blade straight through his heart before he can finish the churlish reply, eyes fixed intently on his. He holds his face up with a hand as he feels the man begin to go limp, his smirk a perfect mirror of the very one he’d given Ed not a few days ago: _Don’t forget your place, beneath me always_.

“A king,” Ed breathes the answer aloud, removing his hand and watching with satisfaction as the man’s head lolls down, lifeless, “I move as I will, any which way, your triumph or loss under my sway; of my body, some say I have two, both stand forever above you - I’m a _king_.”

Ed’s final move is to pin a scroll with the riddle scrawled across it in green ink onto the man’s chest, careful to angle it where it won’t get too blood-drenched to be legible.

Ed skips any post-kill celebration this time around, and settles for an early-night return home in which he pores over the paper blurb last night’s puzzle has allotted him, headline reading: _Riddler Rises Again_?

Ed smiles down on it and falls to fitful sleep with it still clutched in hand.

Day three comes, and Ed’s third victim is the most undeserving of the lot, but too valuable to pass up: The Iceberg Lounge’s most requested cocktail waitress, who would be sorely missed by much of The Lounge’s clientele and, by extension, by Oswald himself when he lost their single-minded business.

Ed sits in her living room as he waits for her to come home from a shift, suffering a few scratches from her talon-like nails as he leaps to cuff her hands behind her back and to a chair as soon as she walks in.

“What do you _want_ , you nasty -”

“Relax,” Ed growls, rubbing at the bleeding spots on his face, “You know who I am. I’ve just got a riddle for you.”

“And if I can’t answer it?”

Ed pulls the handle off his cane, thumbing but not pressing a button on the question mark’s dot.

“ _This_ is something I’ve just cooked up,” Ed says, proudly, “An explosive. You fail to answer, or answer incorrectly, and this whole place will _blow_.”

She eyes it warily, then looks up at his face, chin tilted up in challenge.

“Lighter than what makes me, I preserve or I can raze,” Ed starts, balling his free hand up into a dramatic fist, “All I fear is in me, or that which is ablaze. What am I?”

She considers him for a moment, eyes darting back and forth. Ed is already readying to press down on the explosive in hand when -

“Ice,” she announces, with a start, “Ice!”

Ed lowers and fixes the handle back onto the top of his cane.

“Very good,” he concedes, smiling despite himself.

He frees her, then, considering her for a moment as he does so.

“When you report this little shindig to the police, you will repeat the riddle for them, verbatim,” he commands.

She nods, looking quite pleased with herself but still, understandably (and wisely), a little frightened.

“And be sure to tell your boss The Riddler says hello,” Ed adds, like it’s an afterthought, as he steps out into the night.

While it’s always an unexpected treat to find an opponent actually capable of handling a riddle presented, tonight Ed can’t help but to feel a little put out. Perhaps he should have made it more difficult. He’d been looking forward to testing his bomb out, and a riddle reiterated by a triumphant victim didn’t have quite the same _oomph_ as leaving it scrawled near a conquered corpse.

Still, there was no doubt Oswald, if no one else, would be hearing about it, so Ed is chalking the night up to a success nonetheless, if a not-altogether-satisfactory one.

A certain disquiet about the whole affair is perhaps what drives Ed back to the garish pink-yellow of the other night’s bar. He sips at a drink as his eyes scan the vaguely familiar crowd.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking for someone in particular.

Ed is sucking absently at the dregs of his glass when he spots him, clad once more in black, spikes of hair swept a touch further to one side today but still looking every inch like Gotham’s king.

Eye contact is made, curiosity and apprehension etched across the man’s face. Ed sets his drink down and moves toward him, feet steady and sure.

“Hello there,” the man greets first as Ed settles before him.

His voice is lower than Oswald’s, flatter. From this close, Ed can see too that he’s at least a few years younger, the contours of his face rounder and softer.

Still, the resemblance is striking, especially in and around his lined eyes.

“I worried I scared you off the other night,” the man continues when Ed says nothing, seemingly unruffled, “I’m just a fan wishing you no ill, I promise.”

“A fan?” Ed asks, surprised but just _delighted_ , mouth quirking upward.

“Mm-hmm,” the man confirms, green eyes twinkling, “I was surprised to see you here. This place isn’t exactly known for its upscale clientele.”

“No,” Ed agrees, “I can’t imagine that it is.”

The man smiles at that, chin sharpening with the movement.

“I don’t want to presume,” the man says, voice dropping as he leans in, “But would you be interested in getting out of here?”

Ed’s chest tightens. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“Bathrooms here are clean, too,” the man continues, “If that’s easier.”

“Yes,” Ed replies, calm sweeping over him, “It is.”

Ed wraps a hand around his wrist, then, and leads them toward a (thankfully single-occupancy) bathroom tucked away in the corner.

The door is locked behind them and Ed turns to find the man staring at him expectantly in the bathroom’s dim lighting, eyelids heavy and tongue licking at the corner of his mouth.

“So,” he says, moving forward and bringing his hands to Ed’s shoulders, “Tell me what it is you want.”

“What I want...” Ed repeats, blood rushing in his ears, feeling suddenly very, very drunk.

“Want me on my knees?” the man asks, patient and helpful, “Bent over the sink?”

“Do this kind of thing often?” Ed asks, stalling as he mentally re-evaluates the situation.

“Less often than you might think,” comes the reply, “But more often than you, clearly.”

It’s said in good humor, but Ed feels a fluorescence of heated anger nonetheless.

It’s exactly what he needs.

“I want you on your knees,” Ed says, harsh and commanding ( _I want to see your face,_  he thinks but doesn’t say).

The man blinks in some surprise at Ed’s sudden shift, but drops to his knees immediately after, smiling lips already parting.

He yanks Ed’s pants and briefs down, spitting into his hand and fisting at his cock with practiced movements.

Ed stares down at the man’s glossy shock of hair, the pointed tip of his nose, the pale cream of his jerking hand. Ed is swelling quickly beneath his experienced touch, but something in his stomach is turning.

He looks so like Oswald but _feels_ so little like him, Ed’s eyes fluttering shut as he remembers the untrained tremble of Oswald’s lips and tongue, the way his overwhelmed submission had been broken up by spurts of commanding anger, the _intimacy_ of his unraveling -

There’s wet sucking warmth enveloping his cock now, and Ed’s eyes squeeze more tightly shut, the feel of it _amazing_ but increasingly drowned out by the whirring in Ed’s head.

_This isn’t Oswald_ , he can’t stop thinking, because every expert flick of the tongue makes that reality clearer, harder to drown out; this isn’t Oswald and somehow that fact only gives the actual Oswald more power, because here Ed is, _debasing_ himself, getting blown in the bathroom of some downscale bar by a random just to relive a sad approximation of what it felt like to have Oswald coming undone beneath his hands.

Oswald, who was sitting pretty on his throne right now, probably wandering through the Lounge’s many rooms, accepting compliments, lingering by that goddamn bartender, _Hector_ , running his hand up his arm, pulling him up into his office, maybe, with the newfound confidence of a man no longer utterly without sexual experience -

There’s a hand at his balls now, the touch gentle, and Ed’s reactionary moan sounds like a cry.

Ed wonders how likely it is, his own lookalike in Oswald’s office, touching him, eager to please, offering no challenge, no real knowledge of what Oswald needs or wants, just a desperate hand or mouth or cock jumping at the chance to get one over on The Penguin -

“Stop,” Ed says suddenly, nauseated, then “I said _stop_ ” when the man doesn’t immediately react.

The warmth of the hand and mouth leave, and the man is looking up at him, eyes blurry and confused, and really, he doesn’t even actually look _that_ much like Oswald from this angle, Ed realizes, nausea deepening as he pulls his pants back up.

“Tell anyone about this and I’ll murder you,” Ed threatens with a hiss, his only explanation for the sudden stop, and then he’s leaving, out of the bathroom, the bar, sweat on his temple cooling then freezing in the sharp chill of the outdoors.

Ed gets home, face buried in his hands, crawling out of his skin and drugging himself to uneasy sleep.

He wakes up knowing exactly what he needs to do, the chaotic muddle in his head immediately quieting as the answer comes to him as if by divine intervention.

This last victim is the one Ed intends to savor most.

This one isn’t for the GCPD, or the Bat, or the newspapers - it’s for Oswald and Oswald alone.

With that in mind, Ed chooses the Van Dahl mansion as this scene’s setting, finding it predictably empty but for Oswald’s old maid, who he ties up and gags with little issue but otherwise leaves alone.

His intended victim he drags into Oswald’s bedroom, drugged, bound, and seated wobbily at the foot of his bed.

“Good evening, _Hector_ ,” Ed says pleasantly as he slaps the bartender awake with a gloved hand.

“Oh god,” is the man’s only reply, eyelids drooping heavily.

“‘Oh god’ indeed,” Ed smiles widely, raising a thumb to grip tightly at his face (which really _does_ look remarkably like his own), “Can you guess what’s about to happen?”

“Does it involve the phrase ‘riddle me this’?” he asks in response, the blurriness in his eyes clearing as Ed presses his fingertips harder into his skin.

“Well,” Ed laughs, pleased, “ _Now_ it does. I quite like that.”

“If this is about Penguin -”

“It’s certainly not about _you_.”

“There are far more worthwhile people you could go after, in the waitstaff alone -”

“I have no doubts about that,” Ed says, smoothly, “But it changes nothing about your fate, I’m afraid.”

“God, please, I’ve never even - we’re not -”

“That’s enough,” Ed growls, releasing his hold on his face roughly, “This isn’t a negotiation. I ask, you answer. A correct response is your only shot at evading death.”

Hector exhales and nods weakly.

“So. _Riddle me this:_ I bear the guise of features that are not my own,” Ed declares, back straightening, “A name, face, number - I am, am not that which is shown. What am I?”

Ed watches closely as Hector contemplates, bottom lip between his teeth.

“A fake -”

“Not quite,” Ed says, gleefully, hands in ready fists.

“Wait, no, that’s not my answer,” Hector says, desperate, and Ed frowns but allows him to continue, “A name, face, or number...like an ID, a bill, or -”

Ed’s frown deepens.

“A counterfeit! You’re a counterfeit!” Hector shouts.

He grins up at him, toothy and rapturous.

Ed can’t stand the sight of it.

He brings his hands around the man’s throat.

“Very good,” Ed answers, finally, grip around his neck only tightening, “So you _are_ more than just a pretty face.”

Hector sputters, eyes disbelieving.

“It’s not enough to save you, though,” Ed purrs, squeezing tighter, leaning down to bring their faces closer together, “You’ll remember I only promised a _shot_ at escaping with a correct answer.”

More sputtering.

“See, if it’s _me_ Oswald wants,” Ed growls, mouth at Hector’s ear, “Then it’s _me_ he has to deal with. He doesn’t _get_ to have some simpering, worshipful lookalike.”

There’s silence, now, Hector’s body writhing violently, but Ed’s hold stays firm.

“He doesn’t _get_ to have you, and _you_?” Ed crushes down, hard enough his fingers ache, “You don’t _get_ to have him.”

Hector goes rigid, then finally, blissfully still.

Ed holds the grip for a few beats longer before letting go, pushing him backwards onto the mattress, his brown eyes blank and skin blued.

Ed considers the body before him, throttled and unmoving but otherwise eerily reminiscent of his own.

This time, he doesn’t bother leaving so much as a question mark behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the riddles in this one are either adapted to rhyme from pre-existing material or written from scratch by me.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ellie Goulding's "My Blood."


End file.
